


Divine Right

by Nosferatank



Category: Guardians of Ga'hoole - Kathryn Lasky
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Hagsfiend! Coryn, Hagsfiends, Nachtmagen, Queerplatonic Relationships, because nyra is a shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-05-05 23:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14629461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nosferatank/pseuds/Nosferatank
Summary: Nyra pokes her beak into nachtmagen after the Pure One's defeat, and her aspirations become more sickening the more she reads of it. But while her experiments seemed useless, the spark of haggish blood in her heart was enough to trigger a reaction...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> k so hagsfiend coryn has been a Thing i've thought about ever since the last book was released and Nyra basically being a hagsfiend was really shown. If nyra was a hagsfiend, what does this make Coryn? not fully an owl, that's for certain. It takes a bit more than just blood to brings hagsfiends back into the modern world, but kreeth's book extensively detailed the ways to transform birds. 
> 
> of course Nyra wouldnt be satisfied if her weapon was just an owl. no, she wanted something bigger, with nachtmagen and the cruelty to back it up. Well, she got two of those, and cruelty wasnt one of them

Uglamore was a loyal owl.

He was loyal, and he was valued. For his pure species, for his fighting prowess, for his uncommon literacy. 

For his unquestioning obedience of orders from his superiors. Although sometimes, they pushed it. Like tonight.

Before the fallen owls had even begun to be cleared from the canyons, the widowed General Nyra called him to her. She bobbed her head above her newly-laid egg, cocking her moon-face back and forth. She then tossed Uglamore a crude sack made from rabbit hide, filled with cracked stones with crystals growing inside. She then instructed him to fly them to Mag’s chapel and retrieve a book with a strange spiked rune, which she traced out in the dirt for him.

When he questioned her, foolishly, she snapped at him that it was her Northern clan's business. 

Though it was a thoroughly baffling request, especially in the wake of a devastating loss and dead High Tyto, Uglamore complied. Who was he to question the will of his High Tytess? 

Thus he flew east, the stones in his satchel weighing down even his battle-strong wings. Upon landing at the entrance to Trader Mags’ post, he was greeted by her doltish assistant, who he hissed at and caused to flee.

He had barely started hopping around the bookshelves when Mags’ drawling voice echoed behind him.

“Now, what’re you doing scaring my apprentice like that?” “He was annoying me,” Uglamore grunted. The sooner he accomplished Nyra’s task, the sooner he could return home and begin restructuring his units.

“Pah,” The magpie huffed. “Fair enough. You looking for anything in particular? I hear some shiny stuff clinking around in that bag.”

Grateful for the possibility of a fast exchange, and thus escape, Uglamore swiveled his head to face Mags. 

“Yes, actually. I need a book with this rune,” He said, tracing the design on the floor.

“Ooh, yes, I got one of those. Sit tight, I’ll be back.” And without further ado, Mags flew back into the musty depths of her trading post.  
Uglamore didn't have to wait long before the magpie returned, lugging a thick, tattered book bound in black. It had the precise rune the General was looking for. 

When she dropped it at his claws, he simply tossed the bag of crystals in her general direction. 

“Keep it,” He commanded before taking off with book in claw, ignoring her cry of “Thank ya for the business!” behind him.

 _I am a loyal Pure One_ , he grumbled internally when hauling an ancient grimoire back to the canyons.

 _I am a loyal Pure One_ , he thought when General Ma’am continued to send him out as an errand-owl, with more and more strange and gizzard-churning requests.

 _I am a loyal Pure One_ , he insisted as he watched the High Tytess pluck the eyes out of her own mate’s corpse.

 _I am a loyal Pure One_ , he thought, doubt worming through his gizzard as Nyra spread about ashes and crow feathers and two bloody black eyeballs, and pecked her own egg open as the moon’s shadow ate the light.

———

Dustytuft, perched on a stone ledge somewhat removed from his peers, puffed in pride and clacked his beak watching his best friend’s First Flight ceremony. While the others wilfed under the competition Nyroc presented, Dustytuft felt nothing but pride: his friend had worked hard for his ceremony, and deserved the recognition! 

His flight feathers had come in rather dark, but from what Dustytuft had heard the old guard say, the late High Tyto had been rather-dark feathered as well, so it couldn't be that strange. Nyroc was certainly on his way to achieving his father’s massive size, quickly catching up to the General despite his youth.

She certainly seemed proud of Nyroc, even with the occasional echoing shriek of her displeasure from a less-that-perfect result from her son. Although Dustytuft was grateful he was even allowed to the high crags where the Tyto Albas nested, he was glad he never directly witnessed Nyra’s displeasure. The High Tytess was volatile, and Dustytuft knew with gizzard-deep certainty that not even his odd privilege of her son’s dearest companion would keep him safe in the face of her wrath.

Even now, Dustytuft had been summoned to the General’s hollow to prepare for the flight to the Marking cave. Sooties had never even been allowed near the cave, much less invited to attend to the remains. He hoped dearly this preferential treatment would last.

Dustytuft would soon find out after flying out with Nyroc in search of the truth that it would not.

———

Dustytuft, now Phillip, spiraled from the spill-out point of the Shredders. He missed bodily slamming into Doc Finebeak by a matter of a wingspan. Finebeak, for his part, wore an expression of a strange combination of concerned and amused at his tumble. 

Phillip scrambled to his feet and came face-to-scar with a sneering, sharp-eyed Nyra.

_Oh, racdrops._

———

Phillip was tied and dragged unceremoniously behind a tree. Nyra had set down Nyroc on the forest floor, sitting back and waiting for him to wake up. The barn owl officers were keeping their distance, and Finebeak had left the area, job completed. Phillip’s gizzard quaked with fear: all the pieces he’d heard whispered through the canyon made all too much sense now.

The Tupsi, the Special Ceremony. Killing someone in cold blood. _That’s_ what Nyra wanted her son to commit, and Phillip was the sacrifice.

Beyond his rapidly beating heart, Phillip heard whispers and voices, slowly raising in volume as Nyroc wheedled a confession of ‘love’ from his mother. 

On the general’s cue, Phillip was yanked into eyesight of the gathering of owls and secured to the tree. 

His sensitive ear slits picked up the barest surprised whisper of “Phillip?” from Nyroc. His best friend looked horrible, to say the least. His remaining feathers were crooked and the tines ripped, and his dark eyes looked glazed after his tumble through the Shredders. 

“Fly, Nyroc, fly away!” Phillip shrieked. 

If one of them was going to survive it, Glaux, please let it be Nyroc!

Nyroc was stuttering, his remaining feathers hugging his skin in a wilf. He’d had no idea he was meant to slay another owl, let alone his closest friend. Phillip’s fear for their lives skyrocketed when Nyra turned on her own hatchling and raked her talons across his face. 

When Nyra’s face swiveled to face him, Philip knew he was dead. The pellet he’d yarped up had a better chance of surviving the General’s wrath than he did. 

But something strange happened. 

The High Tytess went yeep.

Nyroc, barely standing, had his yellow gaze (good Glaux above, _yellow_ ) fixated on his mother. His wings were still hanging from his sides like stones, but Nyra seemed to be locked in a dim, wavering bubble of yellow haze. 

Nyroc stumbled and blinked, breaking the spell. Not wasting any time, Nyra lifted her wings in a sharp V shape, preparing to strike at Phillip, but was cut off by an anguished screech from Nyroc. Her son had shaken off his yeep and clumsily collided with her, convulsing like a pellet was coming up wrong. 

It was then that Phillip heard the sickening sounds of hollow bones cracking, grinding and reforming. Nyroc seemed to grow to the size of a fully adult barn owl in the span of moments, muscles bunching and straining.

Nyroc heaved himself off his collapsed mother, whom Phillip couldn't discern was dead or just unconscious. He waddled over to Phillip, and desperately clawed at the ropes binding him. Phillip tried not to flinch when Nyroc’s claws caught on his legs as he broke him free. 

After Phillip unravelled the rope from his talons, he pushed Nyroc away from himself. First gently, then more harshly as his now-larger friend failed to move. 

“Nyroc, we have to move. Fly, before the officers get back, come on!” He pleaded.

Finally, Nyroc seemed to shed his shock and took off, wobbling dangerously on his tattered wings. Phillip flew beneath him, doing his best to send gusts up to Nyroc to support his flight.

They had no destination, only the vague concept of _Away_.

Nyroc lasted longer than what Phillip thought, but he still eventually succumbed to the exhaustion of flying practically featherless. 

“I need to land.” Nyroc wheezed, and Phillip was feeling the strain of the Shredders and the bruises from his capture keenly as well. 

They alighted down on a think, uprooted tree along the pebbled shore of a lake. After resting for a moment, Nyroc looked to Phillip.

“… How bad is it? My feathers?” He questioned, knowing he wouldn't like the answer.

Phillip hummed. “I’ll be honest, you're not gonna like it. Spread your wings for me, please.”

He carefully avoided mentioning that Nyroc’s eyes were still a bright acid-yellow. Was it cowardly to pretend nothing was strange about his friend now? Perhaps. In Phillip’s defense, it had been a _really_ long night.

When Nyroc complied, Phillip hissed in sympathy. “I’m impressed you managed to fly this far. Your undertail coverts are gone, and your secondaries look like they’ll be following them. Thankfully your broken feathers are shedding out and being replaced soon.”

Nyroc cocked his head. “Well, at least I have my primaries left.”

“For a little bit, at least,” He added, ruefully.

“Well, they’ll grow back at least. Why don’t you find us a hollow and I’ll see if there’s anything above the snow?” Phillip suggested.

“May as well get settled. Seems we’ll be here a while.” Nyroc agreed, sending another mournful look at his rather naked wings.

When Phillip returned with a rather pathetically-sized vole, he was greeted by Nyroc’s head popping out of a hollow near the roots, his glowing yellow eyes somewhat startling the Sooty.

After roughly tearing the vole in half and sharing it between them, Nyroc showed Phillip the little stash of bugs that were living with them in the hollow, and Phillip was relieved: he was a passable hunter, but hunting for two in the winter while hiding from the Pure Ones would be hard on even an experienced older owl.

Bellies filled, the pair slept close, puffing their feathers and tucking their heads into the other before sleeping.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phillip and coryn are qpps and thats how it is.  
> A lot of my inspo for what hagsfiends look like (wing shape, long tail, vestigial 'finger' on the wings that will come up later) are inspired by newer and more accurate artistic renderings of Archaeopteryx lithographica.

Nyroc’s recovery was coming along nicely, Phillip thought. He had gotten rather good at waiting in the hollow and hunting from the ground, something that any bird would find extraordinarily difficult. Although certainly his recovery was odd, to say the least.

Nyroc’s voracious appetite certainly made sense, since he was now nearly double Phillip’s size, whereas before he was just a bit smaller than him. His feathers were nearly done shedding, and the new ones were growing in an iridescent crow-black.

Nyroc’s eyes, of course, were still that disconcerting yellow.

Though clearly outside of his depth, Phillip approached Nyroc to speak to him about… whatever this was.

Phillip hopped along the log until he was close to Nyroc. Awkwardly, he prodded him.

“Hey, ah, Nyroc have you looked in the lake lately? You look. Different,” He said, gesturing to Nyroc’s… everything. 

Nyroc shrugged. “I know I look different, if that’s what you’re asking. Mu- Nyra said my father was a rather large owl.”

Phillip hesitated. “It’s a bit more than your size, I’m afraid. And… Nyroc, barn owls don't get this big. Something weird is going on.”

“Your eyes… they’re still yellow,” He whispered. 

“What?” Nyroc questioned, utter bafflement showing on his face. 

Before Phillip could say anything else, Nyroc hop-flew to the lake and peered into his reflection, turning himself around and examining his feathers and face in a deceptively cam manner. Phillip softly landed next to him when Nyroc turned his head towards him, expression grave.

“Phillip, am I dying?”

Rather taken aback, Phillip scrambled for an answer. “Uh, I don't think so? You’re still eating and yarping, and your feathers seem healthy enough, if black. If you were dying I’d think you would feel worse.”

“Then what is this, have you heard of this happening?”

“I… no, I haven’t,” Phillip admitted.

Nyroc seemed to mull this over for a moment. “Well, I don’t feel bad, so hopefully nothing is really wrong. At least I can mostly fly now.”

“Speaking of that,” He continued “I know we need to get further away, so how about Silverveil?”

Phillip perked up. “That’s actually a great idea. Silverveil is easy to hide away in, and it’s pretty far from the canyons. When do you think you’ll be ready to fly?”

Nyroc made a spectacle of examining his black wings, poking his beak into the secondaries. “Perhaps in six or so days? Considering how long it took my first flight feathers to grow in.”

Nyroc sighed. “At least I’m hoping we can sleep during the day. Hunting in the day is hard enough, but my plummels are giving me a hard time.”

And that brought up another concern: Nyroc’s plummels seemed to have been stripped away from his feathers, leaving him a quieter flier than a crow, but still nowhere near the silent movement of an owl. Thankfully, it hadn't hindered them too much, and since they lived in the daytime to avoid Pure Ones, the local owls wouldn't hear the massive wingbeats and investigate.

“It would be nice to not sear my eyes every time I go out of the hollow,” Phillip admitted. “In the meantime, it’s your turn to hunt. I’m going back to the hollow, my eyes are hurting from the sun hitting the lake.”

And without further ado, he flew the short distance to their fallen log and busied himself tossing out the old, tattered moss and replacing it with new, but less soft moss. He heard the distinct wingbeats of Nyroc not too long after. He really has gotten good at compensating for his noisy flight, Phillip thought, rather proudly. 

After eating his vole and Nyroc putting away his frankly huge squirrel, they started the last part of their nighttime ritual- covertly spying on the family of owls a few trees from their hiding spot.

Well, not spying, really. But it certainly felt like it, what with them listening on on what was certainly a family moment. But they were just too tempting: Phillip hadn't heard many Fire Cycle stories before his father joined the Pure Ones, and Nyroc had of course never heard them due to their spronk nature in the Canyons. 

The Boreal mother went on with her tale, describing how Grank, a Spotted Owl, had learnt the secrets of fire from the volcanoes of the beyond. Their embers, the poisonous gases that could kill an owl in a breath, the roiling liquid fire that came from their cones. Then, one day, a coal spewed from the volcano and landed on the snow, but was not extinguished. 

“The coal, like many coals, was orange but at its center there was a most unusual color, a deep sapphire blue.” The owlet’s mother continued. “Grank peered closer still and saw that rimming the blue was a brilliant, dancing edge of green. this nugget of fire became to be known as the Ember of Hoole, the crown for King Hoole.”

When they returned to their hollow after the Boreal scolded her children for playing with their food, Nyroc whispered to Phillip.“Phillip. Have you ever seen anything in fire?”

Phillip could tell how serious this was, with Nyroc’s grave face looking at him so intently. “I… No, I haven’t. Do you?”

“I saw fire coming from mountains… I think they were volcanoes. And I saw weird four-legged creatures around the volcanoes.”

Phillip shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know what those mean. If we ever make it to the Great Tree, or a more populated area, maybe some older owls would know what those are?” he asked, doubt still evident in his voice. 

“I… You’re right Phillip. Let’s just sleep.” Nyroc said, though Phillip could still nearly hear the buzzing questions in his best friend’s head. But he wouldn't push it.

“Alright, Nyroc. Goodnight.”

———

Phillip’s sensitive ears woke him up when he heard the heavy thud of a bird three times his size (Glaux, Nyroc was getting big) landing on the ground just outside their hollow, and a tentative call of “Uh, Phillip?” that made him awake with worry.

He quickly hopped up and stuck his head out of the hollow into the morning sun, and was confronted with the incredibly strange sight of a rabbit of all things reaching out to touch Nyroc’s leg, as if to steady him.

_That’s it, I’ve been living diurnally for too long. I’m sun-mad._

Then the rabbit opened his mouth and talked. 

“That’s in fella, take it slow. I am indeed a real rabbit. I can do all those rabbity things as well, see?” He said, and his nose started to twitch.

If not for the very real sensation of heat from the sun and tree back prickling at his feet, Phillip would have thought he was still asleep.

The rabbit paused his monologue and looked hard at both of them. “Well, for Lapin’s sake, say something at least!”

“What’s Lapin?” Nyroc blurted out before Phillip could even ask if he was still asleep, actually.

The rabbit rolled his pink-rimmed eyes towards the sky. “The Big Rabbit, like your Glaux, but for us rabbits.” 

“Oh,” Nyroc said, dumbly. “Wait, then how did you know about me letting the vole go in the canyons?”

“Wait, he knows about that? How?” Phillip exclaimed, swiveling his gaze away from Nyroc to scrutinize the mysterious rabbit closer. 

“Ah, now that’s a real question! Here, see this spiderweb.” The rabbit said, motioning towards the dew-dotted web perched between the twigs of the fallen tree. 

The web shivered in the breeze. The rabbit stilled and said “Do not disturb me.” In such a commanding voice that both Phillip an Nyroc felt compelled to obey. 

A minute or so later, the rabbit broke his trance and looked towards the pair of birds. 

“Just as I thought!” The rabbit said, which frustrated Phillip quite a bit as that explained absolutely nothing.”

“What, just as you thought what?” Nyroc prompted.

The rabbit gave a strange guffaw and slapped his cheek pouch with his hind leg. “Oh, silly me! I haven’t explained yet, have I?”

“No, you haven’t.” Phillip butted in, feeling frustrated with the rabbit’s conversational meandering.

“Well, I’m a mystic of sorts,” the rabbit said. “I see certain things others don’t, in the spiderwebs.”

He tapped the crescent shape of white fur on his forehead. “This is the mark of a web-reader; as far as I know only rabbits with this mark can read the spiderwebs.”

“So… What do you see in the webs, exactly?” Phillip questioned. 

“Oh, just things,” The rabbit replied elusively.

“Like me releasing the vole?’ Nyroc asked. 

“Yes, and other things.”

“Other things like what?”

“Oh, the past, the future, the present. It’s really not that clear, so don’t think I can read your fortune!”

“Oh,” Nyroc said, the excited light dimming from his eyes slightly. “It would be nice if you could tell us where we need to go next.”

“Oh, no, even if I could tell you that, it wouldn't make a difference,” The rabbit said, craning his head to make steadier eye contact with Nyroc. “You have free will, after all, both of you. And I think, deep in your gizzard or whatever owls use, that you already know where you need to go.”

Philip shrugged. “We were thinking of going to Silverveil. It’s one of the liveliest places in the southern kingdoms.”

“Perhaps,” The rabbit said cryptically.

The awkward silence was getting to be unbearable before Nyroc spoke up. 

“Did you see anything from the Great Tree in your webs? Maybe a Barn Owl named Soren?”

The rabbit shook his head. “Nope, i’m afraid not. I did see a name though, Fengo.”

“Fengo?” Nyroc replied, felling the name roll around on his tongue. It certainly didn't sound like an owl’s name.

“Who’s Fengo?” Phillip asked.

The rabbit shrugged. “Could be an owl, or a rabbit, or an eagle. Who knows, because I certainly don’t!”

“You know…” The rabbit continued slyly. “If you want to practice your firesight, the Beyond is where colliers and smiths and other fire-workers go to hone their craft. I would say it would be an excellent experience for you.”

Nyroc’s feathers rustled in surprise. “How do you know about the firesight?”

The rabbit snorted in a rather undignified way. “I see things, and that’s just one of them. Perhaps if you practice enough, you’ll see me in your fires!”

“Well, in any case, we should be getting along now.” Phillip said.

“Yes, it will soon be evening.”

“Oh, it is! I hardly noticed…” Phillip trailed off. 

The rabbit nodded decisively. “It was wonderful to talk to you, but I think we both must be going.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Nyroc whispered. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Nyroc, Phillip.”

———

At first light the next day, Phillip woke to see Nyroc already up and about, tossing old moss out and compulsively fidgeting with the fresh moss in his knife-like talons. 

“You could have woken me up, you know,” Phillip said.

“I know, but we need to be rested to fly to Silverveil.”

Phillip sighed. “Alright, let’s get ourselves organized and headed out.”

Phillip and Nyroc had been preening each other for quite a while. Phillip was Nyroc’s chief preener since he was a nestling, and Nyroc would preen him back whenever he was free of the scrutinizing gaze of Nyra. It was how Phillip taught Nyroc how to count to nineteen; there were nineteen main flight feathers on a Barn Owl’s wings, so Phillip taught Nyroc what he could through his feathers. 

Now, though, Nyroc was having trouble preening. He was still unused to his larger and more razored beak, and his wingspan was now proportionally larger in comparison to when he looked more like an owl. 

Yes, Phillip had finally admitted it to himself- whatever his dearest friend had changed into, it was not an owl. Not even remote areas such as the Northern Kingdoms had crow-black owls thrice the size of even the largest of owl breeds. 

Not to mention Tytos certainly didn't have the expressive black ear tufts that Nyroc seemed to have acquired. They were rather cute, actually, and gave him a more expressive air despite his pitch-black facial disk. 

Thankfully, with the time spent at the fallen log, Nyroc was able to practice getting his feathers in order, with help from Phillip. He tried to return the favor, but his clumsy handling and his large size made it more sensible to let Phillip do it himself.

Nyroc looked over their shelter and temporary home and mentally said his farewells. The fallen log, that while not a true hollow, did keep them safe and warm. The rabbit’s ear moss that was the softest thing he’d ever felt, and the green of the trees. The clear lake, where he had watched himself slowly change and grow into something large and deadly and not-an-owl. 

Phillip nudged him. “You ready to go?”

At Nyroc’s nod, Phillip took off, leading the way to Silverveil. Nyroc had to be careful to fly a little further away, now; the buffeting of his huge wings would make flight a bit more tiring for his friend if he flew too close. 

The winds were excellent, and Nyroc reveled in the freedom of flying, even if it was still in the harsh light of day.

———

Far, far away, across the Sea of Hoolemere, a Spotted Owl dreamt amongst her fortress of books. 

In her dreams, she could feel the hot breath of dire wolves ruffle her feathers. In Otulissa’s mind’s eye, she could trace the patrol lines that surrounded something the wolves were guarding. Something more precious than any gold, powerful enough to be a small sun, able to be cradled in one’s talons.

But why were they guarding it? No bird, owl or eagle or otherwise, could possibly get close enough to grab it from a volcano. 

As if they heard her dream thoughts, the wolves turned to her at once, hundreds of green eyes flashing and fangs bared in hoarse laughs. They were mocking her!

The volcanoes they guarded erupted, and Otulissa dove into flight, careful to avoid the sparks raining down on her. She’d fought numerous battles with fire, but never been singed herself. The volcanoscape morphed into the sea, bringing back memories of the night her beloved mentor had died before her, one wing torn clean off and the other in flames.

“It’s too real… too real,” she whispered to herself as she watched the flaming owl plunge into the sea. Then, from the sea where Strix Struma had fallen, the water was backlit by a yellow glow before erupting into shiny black feathers and the terrible scream of a Barn Owl, layered with something strange and hellish. She felt desperation, then fear, then uncertainty: whoever this owl was, she wanted to fly to him, help him despite the fear her gizzard strummed in a warning. 

Her wings locked in the glow of the yellow ocean.

_Yeep! I’ve never gone yeep, not even in battle, never!_

When Otulissa woke, she had little memory of the dream but a faint recollection of yellow-on-black and the shree of a Tyto. Otulissa was a rational owl, she did not believe in dreams. Oh, she believed she had them, but ascribing any significance to them other than her mind’s wanderings and memories was preposterous. 

She reached for her favorite book, a thorough weather guide by the Ga’Hoolian queen Strix Emerilla- some good reading would calm her mind, she thought. 

Otulissa didn't notice the owl-shaped shadow perched outside her hollow, far from where her own shadow would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn that rabbit is VERBOSE. I took out so many lines but he still kept talking djalkdsa


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, i think it’s one more chapter for book 1. it’s short, but book 2 will absolutely be more in-depth since much of the beginning of The Hatchling has been super-condensed for this. And sorry for the delay: life has been hectic and my computer had to go in for repairs for 2 weeks.

Unfortunately for Nyroc and his friend, the favorable winds on their journey didn't last long. 

Both of them were getting awfully tired from the headwinds, and if Nyroc felt tired, he was sure Phillip was worse off. Even if he had no idea what caused his transformation or even what he was (not an owl, that was for certain), his large size allowed him to brute-force his way through the headwinds better than a Barn Owl would. 

Thankfully his facial disk and ears were still up to snuff, if pitch-black, so he could hear the skitterings of something on the ground, likely a rodent of some description. Nyroc banked over closer to Philip and questioned “I’m getting pretty hungry, and I hear prey below. Why don’t you set down somewhere while I hunt for us?”

Phillip nodded, “Oh, thank you. Flying in these headwinds is truly terrible.”

Phillip swerved away and landed on an outcropping not far from Nyroc, and Nyroc turned away and got to work tracking the sounds beneath them. There was a burrow next to a boulder, and Nyroc hoped that the burrow was home to some tasty chipmunks, or perhaps some snakes. Phillip had told him that some desert owls ate snakes, and at this point he’d take anything. 

Something did indeed emerge from the burrow, but it was not the traveling pair’s next meal. It was a young Burrowing Owl, perhaps a bit older than Nyroc himself. 

The Burrowing Owl, Kalo, froze and dropped her moss bundle in shock. Her father had convinced his mate Myrtle to vacation in Silverveil, just for a little while. 

She opened her eyes wide at the sight of Nyroc. _What is that?_ She thought, staring hard at him.

Once, when she and her Da were out practicing for her First Prey ceremony, they had sworn they’d seen a hagsfiend scroom, or smee-spirit as they were known as by northern owls. It had terrified her for nights afterwards, even though her parents assured her that they were harmless, if scary. But the bird in front of her looked like a smee-spirit, an alive one! Thrice the size of an owl, with long black feathers and glowing eyes; although this one had the facial disk of a Barn Owl, and a scar running down their face. 

“W-w-what are you doing here?” The burrowing owl questioned, wilfed as far as she could go.

“Oh, just resting. On my way to Silverveil, you see.” Nyroc replied. 

“Silverveil, hmmph,” A voice pealed out from the burrow, and an older owl stepped out of her home. 

There was a flutter of kicked-up dust as Phillip landed next to his friend, having noticed the other owls talking with him. “Oh, Nyroc, did you find-“

He never got to finish when both owls screeched and dove back into their burrows.

“Nyroc! Pure Ones! The Pure Ones are heading to Silverveil! We’re not going to Silverveil, enough of your damned yoickish ideas!”

Nyroc’s gizzard wilted and his glowing eyes seemed to dim. _They think we’re Pure Ones, come to capture or kill them_.

He didn't bother to look to Phillip before taking off, leaving only his faint cries for Phillip to follow.

“I only came for a rest, I wasn't here to stay. I look scary, but I’m not like my mother, or my father, I didn't mean to scare you…”

Phillip winged after his friend desperately, finally able to catch up to Nyroc’s massive wingbeats.

“Nyroc,” he panted. “Racdrops, I’m so sorry, I was stupid, saying your name like that…” He trailed off, seeing a glaring grey light swirl around them. He moved closer to Nyroc, knowing the mist was unnatural. He feared it.

The tattered grey mists formed into bird-shapes, large and long feathered and looking disturbingly like Nyroc himself. They flew alongside both living birds, humming and screeching in a way that sounded like Nyroc when he was feeling strongly.

Phillip only heard a few whispers of ‘Feeble prince…’ ‘One of ours…’ and ‘King of all…’ before his gizzard shuddered. 

Nyroc screamed “Go away!” and the smee-spirits were pushed back into nothingness by a wave of barely-there transparent yellow. 

Both of their gizzards quivered from the terrifying encounter, even if they were nothing but mist. What reason did they have to whisper such words to Nyroc?

———

Phillip felt his gizzard flutter as he finally spotted the low-rising range of hills that signaled the Barrens’ northern border. He could feel Nyroc’s eagerness at the sight, and his friend visibly pushed himself to fly faster, leaving Phillip to be sucked along by his draft.

After his time living in the inhospitable and jagged lands of the canyons, Silverveil was like looking down upon Glaux’s nest. With this many trees about, finding a nice, dry hollow would be easy.

“Maybe we should set down in a ground hollow for tonight. I don’t want to disturb anyone who’s asleep at this time of day.” Nyroc suggested. And with the disastrous events of the last hollow they assumed wasn't occupied by owls, Phillip couldn't blame him for being cautious.

“Just for tonight,” he agreed.

Urged on by the heavy atmosphere and silent flashes of heat lightning, the pair quickly settled into a rotted-out stump on the ground. The inside was warm and overgrown with soft moss, and while it was a tight fit for Nyroc’s black bulk, it was comfortable. 

Phillip felt his companion tense in interest as the sounds of a mother Barn Owl started her bedtime stories to her children. This one was about Hoole’s father, murdered; And his mother, who sent her egg away to be raised by her friend Grank. 

While Nyroc continued to listen intently, Phillip slipped off into sleep. They had flown hard and fast, and it was catching up to him.

———

Phillip was snapped out of his doze by the ear-splitting crack of lightning. He cannoned into Nyroc in his panic, and the crackling sounds outside and the animals sharing their logs fleeing confirmed his fears.

A forest fire.

Phillip launched himself from the stump clumsily, desperate to get away from the flames. But he looked down, and his companion was still perched on the stump, seemingly entranced by the fire edging towards him.

“Nyroc!” Phillip screamed, fear spiking through his gizzard when Nyroc failed to answer or even twitch away from the fire. 

He dived down and dug his talons into Nyroc’s back, desperate to shake him out of his trance. Suddenly the bird beneath him shuddered and muttered something, before seizing up with the realization he was about to be burnt. Phillip barely had time to clench his claws into Nyroc’s back feathers before the panicked not-owl launched himself up, carrying Phillip with him. 

Phillip’s startled cry of “Nyroc what in the name of Glaux?!” alerted Nyroc to his presence. Nyroc swiveled his head back to see his friend hunkered down and clinging to his back for dear life.

“Sorry! Hang on!” Nyroc called, ignoring Phillip’s squawk as a coal whizzed up just in front of them. 

They broke free from the forest fire’s range soon after, and Phillip gratefully launched himself from Nyroc’s back into his own flight. After balancing himself, Phillip saw what Nyroc had apparently been following: a misty bird with stars in her feathers. She looked nothing like the aggressive smee-spirits that had plagued them earlier; she was certainly glaumora-sent.

“Follow, follow me.” She whispered, drifting further away every time they seemed to get within wing-reach. 

With trepidation, Phillip realized the scroom was leading them towards the Sea of Hoolemere.

———  
Just across that same sea, Otulissa was teaching some young’uns for their history classes. The young owls were actually attentive this time, as they were not focusing on one of N’yrthghar’s many wars, but on what historical fact could be gleaned from the legends.

“Grank was the first collier, as you all know. Many of his techniques are even used in the modern age, standing the test of time unlike other innovations. He was more than just the first collier, though; he was one of the Tree’s most revered rybs.”

A little pygmy raised her wing; Fritha, Otulissa recalled.

“Yes, Fritha, you have a question?”

“Is it true that King Hoole… well, that they knew that he was the real king for all of the owl universe, because he found the Ember of Hoole and could hold it in his beak?”

“Well, so they say,” Otulissa said. “I mean, that is part of the legend. Before Hoole found it, it was called the Glauxian Coal, and Grank had possession of it before dropping it in a volcano. From what the legends imply, the Ember is more of an indicator of spiritual leadership, lending magic to those owls noble enough to touch it.”

Otulissa preferred not to bring conjecture or tales about old magic into her lessons, but since they were spoken of in the Cycles they beared mentioning. 

Fritha continued, a gleam in her eyes. “Does that mean owls could dive into volcanoes!?”

“Oh no, that is an art that has been long lost. No owl has dived into a volcano and lived to tell the tale in nearly a millenium.”

“Not even Ruby?” Fritha questioned.

“No,” Otulissa said softly. “Not even Ruby.”

“I heard-“ a young Great Grey named Buck started to speak.

“Yes, Buck, please raise a talon before speaking” Otulissa cut him off, not unkindly.

Buck raised his talon and continued. “I heard it’s guarded by dire wolves, buried in the volcano!”

“Dire wolves?” Fritha said. “That’s stupid.”

“Now, now,” Otulissa chided. “We maintain a civil discourse here.”

All the young owls looked rather puzzled: they didn't know what ‘civil discourse’ was, but they figured it had something to do with being polite.

“Well,” continued Fritha. “I only meant to say they’re extinct!”

“Many owls think they are extinct,” Otulissa replied. When Buck had mentioned the dire wolves something familiar had sent a twinge in her gizzard. It felt familiar, somehow, like she had seen one. Ridiculous, really. The only place she could have seen a real dire wolf was in her dreams.

“Although it makes sense that many would think the wolves are extinct: Even in the Beyond, they go out of their way to avoid owls. Some rogue smiths or colliers have reports of them, though. Whether they guard anything besides their own dens and territory is unlikely.”

Then a young Barn Owl raised his talon. “Then it could be true, about the Ember of Hoole? Is it really magic?”

“It could be true. No one knows for certain, with how old the legends are, but it could be true.”

Otulissa really wished she could say more. Since reviewing the Fire Cycle to teach the youngsters, she’d been having odd dreams and gizzard disturbances, almost like they meant something. It was ridiculous, really. Otulissa was a practical owl; magen was just not easily documentable. Oh, some forms of mild magen like Soren’s starsight was one thing, but the feats on the scale described in the legends were impossible. 

And then, there were the times Otulissa swore she saw the scroom of her late ryb Strix Struma out of the corner of her eye. Which was absurd to the highest degree. Even if she believed in scrooms, Struma had lived a full life, with courage and valor. She couldn't possibly have an unsettled spirit. 

When reading the Fire Cycle it felt like the words would swirl around in her eyes, trying to show her something hidden in the scripts. When Otulissa shook her head the words would right themselves, but they would always return to the strange wriggling. Perhaps she was not getting enough sleep.

Otulissa bid Ms. P goodlight before hitting the moss, not noticing the blind snake’s head swivel around to watch her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, i did change some of the history lesson dialogue: I'm having things like direwolves and minor magen (starsight, firesight to some extent since it's described in the legends) be known: not common knowledge, but still not a myth.
> 
> Many thanks to Dorkryptos on tumblr and the gahoole discord for the art!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOPSIE. this took a long time, but thats because ive been dividing my time between about 12 WIPs and work has been killing me( *waffle house voice*: can i get a day off? can i PLEASE get a day off??)
> 
> ANYWAYS. book two will be longer, and cover the outcast (the good shit). it will hoever be a very long time before you see it, since i dont intend to start posting until the entire fic is done. Enjoy!

The ground continued to clip beneath Nyroc as he and Phillip flew after the drifting scroom. Up ahead he could see the Sea of Hoolemere. Was she taking him to the Great Tree?

 _No._ A kindly voice echoed in his head, answering his question despite never voicing his thoughts.

They were approaching the peninsula of the Sea, and upon looking down Nyroc saw the trees were a bright white, their bark reflective and shining. Then, before his eyes, the light reflecting off the trees peeled off to form a bird’s figure, with brighter points of light sparking on her misty feathers. Nyroc alighted on a thin white branch in front of her, and Phillip edged beside him. The press of his partner’s smaller body against his wings calmed him, his heart racing at the sight of the scroom as it had not in the presence of the smee-spirits. 

His curiosity at this strange forest took over quickly, however.

 _What is this place?_ he thought towards the scroom.

 _A spirit wood_ , came the answer. Nyroc felt Phillip startle beside him at the voice inside his head, quickly connecting the soft words to the scroom in front of them.

_But why did you bring us here?_

_We must wait._

_Wait for whom?_ Nyroc silently asked. With the way the scroom was dividing her attention, he assumed she was having a near identical conversation with Phillip.

_I think you know._

_I do?_ Nyroc thought, head tilting and ear-tufts perking in confusion.

_Think, youngling, think! What brought you out of your daze?_

And with a start, Nyroc remembered. _Otulissa!_

The scroom bobbed her misty head in what must be a nod. _You saw her in the flames, did you not? She will help you complete your journey, in a way the two of you cannot help each other._

_But what IS my journey?_

_I cannot tell you that. you must find out for yourself._

Ignoring her supremely unhelpful answer, Nyroc pressed on with his questions. _But what should I do? When will she come?_

The scroom sighed. _I think you know what you must do. I was hoping she would be here to guide you, but she’s a stubborn one. She cannot believe in what she cannot see- and she cannot see me until she believes scrooms exist._

Suddenly the image of one of his fire visions emerged in his thoughts. 

_The wolves?_ he asked.

She nodded, pressing an image of a mountainous land with fire spitting from the hills. 

_The Ember of Hoole… and something I must do about it?_ He asked.

But the ghost of Strix Struma had begun to fade. _Watch for her, Nyroc, Phillip. Watch for Otulissa._

Nyroc felt as if he’d been snapped back out of a dream, his body still perched on the tree and his claws making deep gouges in the soft wood. Beside him, Phillip shook himself off as if from a bath and muttered “What is it with mystics giving cryptic advice the past few days?”

Really, Nyroc couldn't blame him for being a bit ornery. 

———

The library was empty at this hour, but that didn't stop Otulissa from flying into the library to hopefully find texts to soothe her thoughts and questions. The book she had picked out was made more of hypotheses about the dire wolves than actual fact, but it would suffice seeing as there was little knowledge about the wolves except for their existence and habitat. 

A voice like creaking branches whispered from behind her. “Ah, finally diving into hypotheticals, Otulissa?

Admittedly Otulissa nearly launched off her perch in fright. But she composed herself, turning around to face the elderly ryb.

“Ah, Ezylryb. What are you doing here at this hour?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” he snorted 

“Oh, I’m just reading on dire wolves. It’s odd we’ve not had any expeditions to the Beyond before, you’d think the collier and smithing chaws would be taking off to discover things there.”

The old Screech seemed to ruminate on that a bit. “Are you still having troubles with teaching the Fire Cycle to the young’uns?

Not wanting to seem underprepared, Otulissa was prepared to deny such, but her old mentor would see right through it.

“… Yes, somewhat. I just dont know how to answer some of their questions. They’re excellent questions, but oftentimes the answer is only available in hearsay and legend!”

Ezylryb looked at her with a gleam in his eye promising a lesson. “Perhaps may I direct you to the second Fire book, third canto, lines 47-99.”

“Yes sir, I have a copy in my hollow. I’ll read it as soon as I’m able.”

Otulissa felt a bit discomfited on her flight back to her hollow. When she settled down and opened her book to read, the lines confirmed at least what she already knew: Wolves, like many other desperate creatures, had fled the great inhospitable ice sheets to the Beyond to survive another day. 

And then came the last canto, the one that had been debated by scholars for decades as to its meaning. 

_So bring him back with flames of gold  
Bring him back with burning fire  
For he reads what the flames have told  
And his will is Hoole’s desire  
He shall not cease his endless fight  
He shall fly through days and nights  
Though an outcast in despair   
He has a gizzard that is so fair  
He shall return at summer’s end  
Coal in beak, yet a shadow king still  
Tempered and wise and brave for war_

There Otulissa stopped reading. How can this be? she wondered. There had always been talk of missing stanzas, but some scholars insisted the last lines were a prophecy, and it certainly seemed to be speaking of another owl. Was Hoole making a prophecy? The coal must be the Ember of Hoole then, it couldn't be anything else. A shadow king, though… Otulissa wasn't sure what to think about that phrasing in particular. 

She felt a shiver run through her gizzard. The hollow was brightened by the sun rising, and it seemed she had missed her night flight. Moving to blow out her reading candle, Otulissa paused before doing so, watching the flames flicker and cast shadows on her hollow wall. She knew some of the legends about fire readers implied they could sometimes, briefly, see the future. Had Hoole seen his successor in the flames? 

_Yes_ , a familiar voice echoed in her head. 

Otulissa blinked in surprise. _Strix Struma?_

As she looked up, the shadow she cast from the candle seemed to stretch up and out, deepening and lightening and showing a very familiar face.

———

Otulissa woke with a start. She knew, from deep in her gizzard, that Struma had spoken to her. She had to find this young owl, help them in any way possible. She needed to plan, and formulate an excuse for her friends. Oh, and a substitute ryb for her class. But first, research.

**Author's Note:**

> chapter two is tentatively titled "Nyroc and and Really Weird Second Puberty".
> 
> Thank you to the awesome folks at the gahoole server for helping me toss around ideas and dealing with my snail paced writing!
> 
> As always, comments are cherished and greatly appreciated!


End file.
